


Prompt 157: "I read your diary."

by asexualizing (Specialcookies)



Series: Phrase Prompts [1]
Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Mentions of past abuse, Tumblr Prompts, a bit of Debbie's past, a bit of Lou's and Debbie's past, there is no actual invasion of privacy as the prompt may suggest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 11:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15338778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specialcookies/pseuds/asexualizing
Summary: “And, um, speaking of my diary,” she’s now rocking back and forth slightly. Lou quirks an eyebrow at her. “Did you happen do see it?”Lou blinks a few times, dumbfounded. Debbie doesn’t see it. “You have an actual diary?” She tries to keep control of her tone, but she’s so shocked she’s not sure she manages it. Debbie just never seemed the person to keep her thoughts anywhere but in her head.





	Prompt 157: "I read your diary."

**Author's Note:**

> i was sent this prompt at tumblr, and the result turned much longer than anticipated, so here it is posted on here as well.

She finds herself wandering to Debbie’s room, two cups in her hand. Debbie didn’t ask, but Lou thought she might as well offer something if she’s gonna go, because other than tea, she has no reason to be there.

The door is wide open, and inside, Debbie’s ripping boxes open, putting as many things as she can in place. Lou leans on the doorframe, says: “Hey.” If she’s gonna seek Debbie out just because, she shouldn’t also creep.

Debbie looks up from where she’s crouching, a bedside lamp in her hands. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, her feet are covered is thick socks, and she’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt full of paint stains (Lou remembers the day that happened. They just moved in to a little Brooklyn apartment and Debbie wanted the walls in Peach, convincing Lou that it would be fun to paint them. She brought buckets of the shade and they took a day to go over all the walls, just the two of them, some pizza, and Fleetwood Mac. Lou never told her she was right, and it was fun, but Debbie knew, anyway, because Lou couldn’t hold the frown for long). She seems confused, disoriented, like she’s been at it for too long now. “Hey,” she says, a bit breathless.

Lou holds the mug out towards her in silence. Debbie’s face softens and she smiles, puts the lamp aside and swiftly gets up, comes to take her tea.

“Thanks,” she says, blowing air on it.

Lou shrugs it off with a nod, and drinks her coffee. She looks around the room. Nearly half the boxes are completely empty -- there’s Debbie’s books on shelves, color-coded, and Debbie’s small collection of stolen art on the walls. The floor is filled with bubble wrap, miscellaneous cables and folders full of documents. So many times Lou had stood right here, just like this, and looked at the room where time stood still. It’s strange to finally see it moving.

“You really kept it all,” Debbie marvels, sounds a bit thankful and a bit moved and a bit overwhelmed. Lou shifts her eyes to her, but Debbie’s drinking her tea, playing with the string of the tea bag and staring at the lamp on the floor. 

“Well,” she says, trying to play it down, though she knows it’s impossible -- Debbie left her life behind as a mess, and the trial went so quick she had no time to fix it; Lou could drop this all on Danny, and she tried, but then everybody went about packing in all the wrong ways and Lou couldn’t. She couldn’t walk. “Danny payed the movers. And I only unpacked your clothes so they wouldn’t get all dusty and wrinkly and you would give me a run down for that. And I borrowed your records.”

Debbie huffs out a laugh. When she looks up to Lou, the wrinkles around her eyes are smiling. “You gonna come in?”

Lou gestures with her chin towards the unpacked boxes. “You want help?”

Debbie shakes her head. “Just company.”

Lou ends up on Debbie’s bed, propped against the headboard, her shoes kicked off her feet, observing as Debbie carefully decides what goes where, occasionally asking Lou for her opinion. She hasn’t seen someone so happy to arrange their living space since -- well, since Debbie wanted the walls in Peach.

“By the way,” Debbie halts in the middle of untangling her collection of string lights, looking at Lou over her shoulder. “Where’s my Gran’s silverware?”

“Kitchen,” Lou answers simply, as if it should be obvious that silverware goes in the kitchen regardless of its sentimental value and the absence of the person to whom it belongs.

“Borrowed that as well, didn’t you?” she teases, though she knows Lou would never do that. Debbie’s Gran died two years after she met Lou, and Lou had been to the funeral with her, and Lou had lied down with Debbie’s head on her chest and listened to the stories. Debbie knows Lou respects the memory of that woman, more than she respects most of Debbie’s family. Knows it well enough to joke about it.

“Had to impress some guests…” Lou gets a throw pillow in her face. Luckily, she was quick enough to move the coffee out of the way. She puts the pillow behind her head, and answers the question seriously: “It’s next to her recipes, your aunt’s china, and your collection of horrendous mugs. Kept you a whole cabinet, baby.”

For a moment, Debbie does nothing but stare at Lou like she is lost. For words, for whatever. Lou almost gives in and diverts her eyes, but that would be too cowardly of her. So she holds Debbie’s gaze until Debbie drops the wire lights, plants her ass flat on the floor facing Lou, her knees folded and her chin on them, her arms around her shins.

“Lou,” she says, almost too serious to be serious, the mischievous glint in her eyes giving her completely away.

“Yes?” Lou asks over the rim of her cup, cannot possibly anticipate what comes next.

“Did you snoop?”

Lou laughs so hard she almost spills coffee on herself and Debbie’s expensive Egyptian cotton sheets. She wipes tears from the corner of her eye, and Debbie’s smile is wide and honest. “Yeah, I read your diary,” she manages while catching her breath.

“I’d have thought you’d go for the sex toys,” Debbie replies without missing a beat.

Lou throws the pillow back at Debbie, who catches it between two hands. When she lowers it, her expression is something Lou cannot exactly decipher, but is akin to what Lou might call _endeared_.

“What?” she asks when Debbie says nothing.

“Thank you,” Debbie says, hugging the pillow now. “For, you know…” she gestures around her.

Lou runs a hand in her hair, takes a deep interest in her coffee. “Sure thing,” she says, as casual as she can. She knows it took a lot of Debbie to thank her, and she also knows that if she makes this moment too real, she’ll need to get out of the room.

Debbie finally shifts her gaze away from Lou, and Lou can breathe again. She picks her tea up, drinks it, making too much noise while at it. “And, um, speaking of my diary,” she’s now rocking back and forth slightly. Lou quirks an eyebrow at her. “Did you happen do see it?”

Lou blinks a few times, dumbfounded. Debbie doesn’t see it. “You have an actual diary?” She tries to keep control of her tone, but she’s so shocked she’s not sure she manages it. Debbie just never seemed the person to keep her thoughts anywhere but in her head.

Debbie shrugs, shy all of a sudden. “Journal, whatever you want to call it. Black notebook with an anarchy sticker on it.”

“Oh,” Lou exclaims, ‘cause she does remember that notebook, she does remember packing it in one of the boxes containing Debbie’s books. She gets up smoothly, laying her coffee cup on Debbie’s bedside table. “I thought it was your blacklist,” she says, only half-joking, digging into the only box that’s marked _Books_ which Debbie hadn’t touched yet. Debbie laughs nervously. Putting aside some scrappy editions of Emily Dickinson (Debbie used to take her books anywhere, disregarding the beauty of well-kept books for the marks of time and affection towards them), Lou digs up the black notebook with the anarchy sticker on. She has to resist the urge to open it up, flick through its pages and see what Debbie saw fit to catalogue in there. All jokes aside, she would never snoop through Debbie’s belongings. She knows what kind of trust that breaks.

Lou hands the notebook to Debbie’s outstretched hand, then goes back to the bed, sits crossed-legs in the middle of it, watching Debbie curiously. “So, who was Debbie Ocean’s crush at thirteen?” she asks, but Debbie doesn’t answer. She runs her fingers tentatively over the cover, the spine, the edges of the pages. Lou’s certain she went so deep inside her head and that Lou’s presence will not matter until she is done with the diary, whatever it contains; her throat is working as she swallows, her eyes moving up and down over the cover, as she still hasn’t open it.

Lou feels invasive, even though Debbie asked her to be here, even though she didn’t snoop. Then Debbie gets up, notebook in hand, and comes to sit next to Lou on the bed, and before Lou can say anything, Debbie opens the notebook and begins to read:

“Dear diary,” she says, and huffs. Her hand comes to rest on Lou’s knee, and Lou sits very still. She reads to herself, her lips moving silently, and Lou watches her, heart swelling at the little girl who must have written these words. Lou begins to think she would never get to hear what that girl actually had to say when Debbie speaks again, the hand on Lou’s knee trembling slightly. “I’m writing to myself because I don’t know who I can share these things with. Oceans don’t make friends, is what I’m told. Not the kind of friends you talk to. It’s not because Dad told me, I don’t care what Dad says. But Danny said the same thing, and Danny never agrees with Dad. So I don’t know who I can talk to, and Mom’s gone, isn’t she? Mom’s gone.”

Debbie’s voice never wavers as she says these words, but her hand on Lou’s knee tightens its hold, and her own leg jumps quickly up and down. Lou tries to catch her gaze, but Debbie doesn’t look up as she lets the words hang in the air.

Lou clears her throat before she says: “Deb,” gentle, hesitant, because she doesn’t want to sound like a person who’s about to fucking cry for this shit alone. “You don’t have to -- “ she begins, but Debbie ignores her, flipping to the next page and reading out loud again:

“Dear diary,” she pauses again. Lou’s careful when she covers Debbie’s hand with her own, and Debbie makes no move away from her touch. “I stayed up all night. Dad took Danny on a job and Gran came over, she taught me how to play Blackjack, and I didn’t want to sleep. Gran’s really good at Blackjack. She says I got a knack for it, myself. She also said staying up is not an excuse to miss school, so I’m writing because I’m trying to not fall asleep in class.”

Debbie turns her palm upwards, seeking Lou’s fingers. Lou runs them reassuringly over the inside of Debbie’s wrist, up to the tip of her fingers. She knows a lot about Debbie’s past, and Debbie’s family, but she never heard it in such a clear-cut way. She weighs her breaths, never takes her eyes of Debbie, whose composure is shaken in a way only those who know her all too well could discern.

She says nothing, just runs her fingers from the inside of Debbie’s wrist to the tips of her fingers as Debbie puts both her legs on the bed, and lets Debbie pause, and read, and pause as she likes. She reads a few pages following each other, then starts to skip forwards, then backwards. 10-14-12-15. _Dear diary; Hey; I don’t get your point but whatever._ There are no dates, no days. It’s hard to place the entries on a clear timeline, but Lou’s not trying to. She simply listens to Debbie, whose crush at thirteen was actually her biology teacher ( _She’s cool, in a really uncool way, and also…_ )and whose first run-in with the cops happened at sixteen, after her Dad messed up a job ( _I know he’s gonna blame me for it, but Danny also says it’s his fault_ ).

Lou has no idea how long they’ve been sitting there by the time it seems as if Debbie’s finished. Could be half and hour, could be more. Debbie hasn’t looked at her throughout it all, and Lou had not taken her eyes off Debbie. She’s blinking more often now, swallowing more heavily. Her palm twitch every now and then under Lou’s fingers.

They silence stretches so far Lou’s not sure how to end it, and what to say to Debbie, anyway, but then Debbie flips a page, then another, and another, and she says: “You’re gonna like this one,” with something that resembles a smile on her lips, and Lou finds herself responding with an almost inaudible: “Go on.”

“Hey dumbass,” she reads, and the smile grows, and her nose twitches as if she’s trying to hide it, or as if she’s trying not to cry, or -- “I’m writing ‘cause I’m happy, and I need you to remember that.” Lou almost chokes with how happy this line alone makes _her_. Debbie’s fingers are tapping against hers now, a strange rhythm that somehow both of them keep up. “Spent Christmas with Lou. Just moved to Brooklyn. Painted the walls Peach. Lou loved it, so if she tells you otherwise, remember that she has a tendency to lie.”

Lou can’t help the laugh that’s bubbling out of her, wet and from the bottom of her heart. Their fingers keep their rhythm. Debbie might have sniffled, but Lou’s honestly not sure.

“We said we’ll stay at home for New Year’s. I might actually enjoy it this time.”

Unable to contain it, the words come out of Lou in a rush as Debbie looks up at her, for the first time in forever: “I almost kissed you that New Year’s.”

Debbie does sniffle now, and laughs, relieved, almost; taps a little bit faster against Lou’s fingers. “We were drunk.”

“So drunk.”

They stare at each other, so many gaps between them, yet they’re closer than they have been in years. Lou wants, more than anything, to make Debbie write that line again -- _I’m writing ‘cause I’m happy, and I need you to remember that_.

“I almost kissed you a few months later, when we went to Ocean City,” Debbie confesses, blunt, daring, more than they ever were.

Lou’s lips tremble. “We were drunk.”

“So drunk.”

Debbie’s thumb runs over the words she had just read, and she glances at Lou’s lips, then back at her eyes, her own lips parting slightly as if in anticipation. Lou’s about to make another joke before they both start to feel uncomfortable, but Debbie beats her to it: “I hope you’re not drunk right now,” she says, and she sounds like she is holding back.

Lou would be lying if she said she’s not taken aback, but still, she manages to rasp: “I’m not,” before leaning in in time for Debbie to lock their lips together. And it’s like nothing matters and everything matters too much -- jail, Claude, rigging bingo, too many years of wanting and that diary between their bodies. Their fingers are still keeping up their rhythm, and Lou brings her other hand to Debbie’s neck, thumb stroking her jaw as they move to find an angle that fits them both. Unhurried, tender, they kiss.

Debbie’s the first to break away, pant and lean her head on Lou’s shoulder. Lou strokes her hair, trying to make her heart beat slower. She’s certain she’s vibrating with the proximity of Debbie. With how much she refused to believe she’ll ever be that close again.

“So, dumbass,” Debbie reads, her voice so low and so close and Lou buries her nose in her hair, breathes in the same shampoo she has been using for decades now. “There you are,” Debbie lifts her head, brushes her lips against Lou’s neck. “You’re happy,” she trails upwards and upwards until Lou turns to kiss her again. “It’s kind of nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr!](https://straperine.tumblr.com/) if you want.


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